American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E5 - Ghost House
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 5: The ghosts are the puppets, the house holds the strings. Fallout from WHS spreads all over the timeline. Morbid fans break into the dream home/nightmare manor. Get a look at Chad & Patrick in their troubled mortal time. Meet some previous home-owners with dark passions. Written in the style of the show for the avid fan, not the faint-of-heart. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Murder House

This is** Episode 5 **of American Horror Story season 1.5 - Murder House Revisited. If you haven't already, you should probably read the previous episodes or you may be confused. Check my Profile to find them.

* * *

**1984**

The young couple met at a fetish convention in Hollywood. They both went by their middle names at the convention rather than their first names and for the same reason: To separate their 'normal' lives from their play personas. When they discovered that fact at the hotel bar, they immediately hit it off.

He was a dominant bottom; she was a shy dominatrix. They played well together. They started seeing each other regularly then they started seeing each other almost exclusively, play parties not included. A couple of years after first meeting they got married. That same year they moved into Murder House. It was "almost perfect", she said when they got settled.

When they were on the clock, visiting relatives or entertaining certain friends they were Stanley and Marie Argento. He was a financial executor who made good money. She was the owner of a clothing store. When they had out the leather and chains, he was Sam the submissive and she was Lady Nikki - and she was in charge.

The library was one of their favorite places to play. It had a lot of open space and the books acted a bit like soundproofing. They'd rigged the ceiling and the floor with O rings and the rug before the fireplace was comfortable and easy to clean. They liked to record and photograph their fetish play, for more fun and reminiscing later. They talked a lot about what they wanted from their playtime; it was part of what kept them so in love.

Living in Murder House was an inspiration to their bondage and discipline sessions; their photos in the house made all others look like child's play. After she bought a copy of the Marquis de Sade's _120 Days of Sodom_, they moved to breath play: Asphyxiation during pleasure. It wasn't malicious: Nikki was a strict but loving mistress to her husband and gave him exactly the sort of torture his growing dark appetite craved. Sam especially got off on her putting a belt around his throat like a noose. She would restrict his airflow during sex until he was about to orgasm then she would release him. It was intense; he passed out during more than one play date.

When the police found their bodies it was obvious they had been engaged in a play session when they were murdered. It was difficult for forensics to determine which injuries were self-inflicted and which were the acts of the murderer. The video they were making was little help: It showed the couple as Nikki bound and gagged Sam. The footage showed her slipping a belt around his neck while he hung suspended by the wrists from an A-frame bar above. A shadowy blur passed in front of the camera, momentarily blocking view of the couple. Then the recording stopped. When it started next the couple were dead and mutilated. Inhumanly so.

No one could explain what happened. Whatever happened, the autopsy blamed the vicious claw marks on animal attack, though it didn't speculate on the type. The couple had no pets and there wasn't evidence of any kind found at the scene that might indicate what sort of creature could flay meat from human bones like that. The official causes of death were listed as: Willful homicide through blunt force trauma, asphyxiation and laceration/evisceration.

The Argentos only lived in the house for four months before it was on the market again.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**2010**

"I don't know how you talked me into this," Chad said, hugging his middle as he looked around the entryway.

There was dust and dirt everywhere. Cobwebs in every corner. He'd forgotten since seeing it during the initial walk-through just how bad it was. Maybe he hadn't wanted to remember.

"It'll be great," said Patrick, coming in behind him. He slipped his arms around the shorter man and pulled him close. "Once we get it cleaned up and redecorated, it'll be gorgeous. We're going to make this place amazing. How can we fail with your mad designing skills?"

Chad smiled over a shoulder at him. "You sure know how to challenge a man."

"You know it, babe. Just wait till we christen the master chamber." He waggled his brows then gave Chad a quick kiss. He let go afterward and moved down the hall. "Come on. Let's go see if they got the new fridge hooked up."

Chad followed more slowly, hugging himself again as his smile wilted. He wanted to share Patrick's enthusiasm but the place just felt so... wrong. Like it might never be fixed up properly. He wasn't sure he was up to the challenge.

**...**

**1994 **

The days that immediately followed the Westfield High massacre were a chaotic blur. The school was closed off for a week while investigators collected evidence and removed bodies. Murder House was turned inside out for the same reason, during which time Constance and Adelaide stayed in a motel under a fake name, to avert the press and angry news-readers. Lawrence stayed in the hospital burn ward in critical condition.

Public hatred toward Constance grew as the days dragged by. People wanted to know why she hadn't known her son was capable of such a thing. Why hadn't she known he had multiple guns in the house? Why hadn't she seen warning signs? Why didn't do something to prevent it? Everyone wanted answers and she had none to give. She didn't understand it herself. The boy she raised wasn't someone who would - or could - do something like that.

The hate mail poured into the mailbox at their abandoned home. People left angry posters taped to the front gate. Constance had to disconnect the phone. The newspapers ran nasty headlines. She couldn't watch television due to the constant coverage. Survivors' names. Names of the dead. Sobbing, panicked children and mournful adults filled the broadcasts, run over and over until something new surfaced. They splashed up images of her sweet son with the words 'Monster' and 'Murderer' and 'Dead' emblazoned in red over them.

But the one thing that didn't surface was what everyone wanted to know: Why?

Why had a quiet, shy, smart kid like Tate suddenly turned cold-blooded killer? He seemed to have it all going for him: Gifted student. Good looking. On the track team. No history of acting out. A teacher's wet dream. It was the fact that the slaughter made no sense that had everyone captivated.

The police confiscated a lot of things from Tate's room but nothing they released showed his reasoning. There seemed to be no motive. All they had were composition books filled with bleak poetry, a few unaddressed love letters he never sent and some crude sketches of guns. The teenager left the world nothing to explain what he was thinking that day.

The public couldn't blame Larry thanks to his life-threatening injuries but some still tried. Any woman who brings a man into an existing family is asking for trouble, they said. But the man had nearly died at the hands of the same boy who shot up his school. So they blamed the mother. Tate was dead. There was no one left to blame but her.

In the weeks that followed, the other families buried their dead. Some of the funerals were so large, thousands of people attended. Some were televised. While the victims were buried with expensive funeral wreaths and sang to rest by 300-person volunteer choirs, Constance had to have her son cremated in secret.

They couldn't risk a headstone or a burial; those would surely be defaced and raided by haters and grim trophy collectors. While long lines of mourners waited their turn to say goodbye to the neatly-dressed corpses of the people who were killed, Constance's baby was shoved into a large oven while only she and her daughter wept.

The bereaved mother took his ashes to the beach, where she scattered them over the surf. She knew it was Tate's favorite place to be. It was the only semi-sweet moment she gleaned from his funeral. She couldn't stop crying for hours afterward.

The media was relentless, tracking her everywhere she went, trying to get a story out of her. Many offered to pay her. All of them accused her. She couldn't say anything kind about her son to them or that made her complicit. She wasn't allowed to miss him. Or grieve for him.

No one would ever know the sweet boy she'd loved the seventeen years before he died. No one would ever see all the good that had died with him. The world would only know the black-clad hate-filled murderer who had stalked the halls of Westfield High that sad spring day.

They sold the house. Constance couldn't live there with the news people and gore freaks hounding the place all the time. She couldn't bear to be in the room where Tate's blood had soaked into the floor. Lawrence didn't want to live there any longer. She couldn't stand to be with him either way. He repulsed her. She had to leave for a while. She had to take Addie away until interest died down and the lawsuits settled.

Telling Tate that she had to leave was one of the hardest things she had to do. He didn't understand what had happened. He didn't remember dying, or the shootings at the school. He didn't remember setting Lawrence on fire. And she didn't have it in her to baby-step him through the reality of it all. She could barely cope with the fallout from it herself.

So she told her son that Lawrence had been hurt in a fire and that she needed to find them a new place to live. Someplace that wouldn't include Larry. Tate had been so overjoyed that he didn't mind or really even listen to the rest of her excuses. He knew Lawrence was in the hospital and wouldn't be returning. That's all that mattered to him. She told her boy that he had to stay at the house, so there was someone there to keep an eye on everything. He believed her.

They'd been working through the reality of his situation ever since.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Welcome back! I'm sorry if that last episode hurt any brains out there. It's nice that you've returned for more punishment. We're almost halfway through the season, if you're curious.

_Ghost House_ is the name of this episode. It's also the name of the first real horror novel I remember reading as a kid of about 10. It's by author Claire McNally. The story centers around a family of 5, with children ages 12, 8 and 5. It's the first book I've read where children were burned alive in their beds by a vengeful ghost. In fact, it's the only book I've read like that. Amazingly I still have that book. It's sitting on the shelf right above my desk.

The Argentos in the first segment come from the official AHS website, "You're Gonna Die In There", that was around when Season 1 was airing. The site gave some info about other people who'd lived in the house that didn't get face time in the show. I noticed that some of those un-featured owners had traits/issues that do surface in other charactersin the show. In Season 1 that Mrs. Harvey was the one behind guys like Ben messing with fire... I'm guessing the idea carried through with the un-featured characters too. We don't see them in the show but we see their influence in things like Chad's occasional obsession with disease even after he's dead (there was a lady who owned the house before him who had OCD with disease and uncleanliness).

Check my Profile for music to play. This episode goes up and down the emotional ladder. Please hold on tightly.


	2. Chapter 2 - Surprises

**2018 - 2 nights after the funeral**

... ...

Michael didn't get to go to the playground often so when he did he really made it worth it. He did every activity at least three times but his favorite was the slide. The big, twisty slope went through a tunnel and dumped the rider out blindly into the sandbox below. Mama Constance always waited at the bottom to catch him.

Only she wasn't there when he slid out this time. He landed on cold, hard sand without assistance. He got a friction burn on one knee.

"Mama Constance?" he called. He came out from under the climbing gym and looked around.

The park was dark. The light posts every few feet were lit but the yellowish illumination only made the dark parts look darker. He was all by himself.

"Father Jeremiah?" he called, louder. "Mama Constance?"

Then he saw movement over by the swings. He moved closer and saw it was a person. A shiny black rubber person. The outfit meant nothing to the little boy. It looked weird to him, like something out of the Cirque du Soleil shows Mama Constance liked so much.

"Are you a circus person?" he asked.

The Rubber Man came closer to him but didn't say anything.

"Do some tricks," Michael said. "Do a back flip."

The rubber-clad individual paused, then executed a flawless silent back flip. The shiny man even did a little half-bow. Michael smiled. Rubber Man produced several black balls that he juggled deftly. This made the boy even happier. He clapped when Rubber Man made them all disappear one after the other just by catching them.

Then the performer offered his hand to Michael. He gestured with his other arm in an exaggerated fashion that invited the boy along with him. Michael assumed he meant they were going on an adventure. He put his hand in the slick black one and he let Rubber Man lead him away from the park.

They walked for a while in darkness, avoiding the spots of light. The pace was swift but effortless: It almost felt like flying to Michael. Then everything got brighter and when the boy could see, he discovered he was in the basement of the house next door to his. It wasn't an adventure at all. He'd already seen the mess when he'd hid from Ethan's daddy. He could hear a baby crying hard somewhere.

"I wanted to go to Wonderland," he complained. "Not this old place."

Rubber Man put a finger over where his mouth would be. Though the hood covered that area of his face, the message was clear. Michael frowned but he got quiet and looked around, just in case there was a reason he was being shushed. His black shiny companion took his hand again and led him over to an operating table where a newborn baby boy was laying naked. He was wailing so fiercely his skin had turned red.

Abruptly Michael found himself laying on the table where the baby had been. A strange doctor with weird eyes had the crying baby in his hands and was holding him above Michael. He was going to shove the squalling infant into the wide, bloody gash in Michael's middle.

... ...

Michael woke up the whole house with his screams. He didn't want to go back to sleep that night, even though Mama Constance plied him with hot cocoa and let him stay in her bed with her. He wouldn't sleep again until dawn.

**...**

**3 days after the funeral**

"I think we should see if Violet can cross the property line," Billie Dean said the next morning. She had her cigarette poised near her lips but didn't put the filter to her mouth just yet. "It would be nice if I could speak with her someplace a little less..." She trailed off and had her delayed puff of smoke.

She, Constance and Father Jeremiah were at the kitchen table. Michael was in the sitting room taking a Latin quiz on the laptop. There was a plate of cookies on the table for when he finished. The adults had already sampled them.

"I've given it a lot of thought," Constance said. "I don't think anyone in that house should be told about the barrier. If one knows, they'll all know. If they all know, some are bound to come over here without invites."

Father Jeremiah looked quizzically at her. "Don't you want your son to try?"

She laced her fingers and propped her elbows on the tabletop. "Of course I want my boy close to me. But I think it's best if he's left unaware of the barrier. He... doesn't get along with Billie Dean. I think it's better for everyone if he just... doesn't know for a while."

"Like with your being dead," Jeremiah said.

She gave him a steely look. "He never needs to know _that_." She wilted then, pressing one hand to her forehead while the other collected her vodka-laced cup of tea. "You don't understand how it would... affect him. He doesn't handle unpleasant surprises very well. It's just... best if he doesn't know his mama's died."

Billie Dean sighed and pulled a last puff from her cigarette before putting it out. "I think we can trust Violet."

"I don't believe she can keep a secret like that from her parents," said Constance after a bracing sip from her cup.

...

Tate crouched on the attic floor with the blackened key clutched in both hands. He had found the box right where his mother had said it would be. It was dark, like the key, almost big enough to fit a football inside. Its design reminded him of a pirate's treasure chest. Years of dust made it look even more mythical. He liked it the way it was. He was reluctant to open it. He didn't want the contents to spoil it.

He crouched there for a long time before finally inserting the key in the lock. It gave with a faint click. After a few more moments of stalling he pushed the lid open. The first thing he saw was a small teddy bear dressed in a cap and gown in WHS colors with the school's mascot on the middle. White letters below spelled out the word 'Congratulations'. The bear took up most of the room in the box so he pulled it out and set it aside. It had a gift card tagged to one paw that he noticed but didn't bother removing.

Beneath the toy was a package wrapped in black wrapping paper with shiny silver diplomas all over it. There was a piece of paper beneath it, folded in half. He took the package out and set it aside as well then he picked up the paper. Unfolding it he saw his mother's slanted handwriting.

_Tate, my dearest son:_

_Today you are a man. You will never know how proud you've made your mama. I know that whatever you choose to do with your life, you'll amaze the world._

_How time has rushed by! I barely just had you and already you're grown. I miss the little boy you were so much but I know that I will love the adult that you are becoming just as deeply. And I want you to know, my beautiful boy, that I will always be here for you. _

_The present is something that belonged to your father. I know he would want you to have it. I think he told me once that it belonged to his grandfather. _

_I love you with all my heart._

_Mama_

The letter was supposed to be a pep-talk for the future but instead it was a bitter reminder of what was never going to be. He crushed the letter impulsively as tears started to fall. Why was his mother giving it to him now?

He sniffled and glared at the wrapped package. He wouldn't even bother opening it except that mama had said it was something that belonged to his father. Still he was reluctant to open it. He sat there just looking at it for a while, like he had the box, tears dripping off his chin. He finally picked up the present. He ripped the paper off without ceremony or joy.

Within was an old wooden box, short and square. He opened that and nestled within the velvet-lined wood was a very old pocket watch. He lifted it by the chain and watched as it slowly spun at the end. The timepiece was tarnished with age and had an ornately etched brass outer cover. He caught the watch mid-spin and opened the hinged lid. The glass-covered watch face beneath was still.

Time had run out.

He tried winding it but the watch wouldn't start. He put it back into the box and shut it. Then he took it over to where he kept his treasures. He sat down cross-legged and rearranged his stash in the wall so the watch box could fit. Then he covered up his hiding place. He put his back to it, pulled his knees up and hugged them.

He tried to remember what his father looked like but he didn't even have a picture in his head of the man. Mama didn't have any pictures of him; she'd said they'd had a photo album but it got destroyed in a flood. He didn't remember it.

He rested his damp cheek on his knees, keeping one arm around his legs while he chewed the cuticles of the other hand. He could see the graduation bear from where he sat. He stared at it for a long time before getting to his feet. Then he went over to it and picked it up. He held it around the middle, over the WHS mascot, and put his other hand on top of the bear's head.

Then he twisted.

And twisted.

And twisted.

Around and around the bear's head went. How many times could the head go around before something had to give?

Snap, snap, snap. The seams began to split. Stuffing showed. Old cloth ripped. The head came off.

He sat down and stared at the stuffing that fluffed out of each torn end. He thought about last night with Patrick and he thought about his mother and he wondered if there really was any additional sin on his soul or if it just didn't matter anymore.

...

Gladys sat on the leather couch, her hands folded in her lap. The plump girl looked at Ben who looked back at her. He slung an arm over the back of his chair and scratched his head with the tip of his pencil.

"I'm not really sure what to tell you," he said. "I'm a therapist, not Missing Persons. Did Maria... Was she acting in an unusual manner the last time you saw her?"

Gladys thought about it. "She was looking at the back yard a lot... Standing at the window. More than usual."

"Have you tried looking in the yard?"

The girl nodded. "There's nothing there but the hole."

"Well, if I see her I'll let her know you're looking for her," Ben said. "But beyond that..." He shrugged and smiled apologetically.

The nursing student nodded and got up. She let herself out of his office. He saw movement in the hall beyond and got up to go investigate. There were workmen out there, repairing the fallen beam in the foyer. Nora Montgomery was out there as well, watching and fretting and complaining to herself about the lack of care the men were showing to the rest of the house while they worked.

Ben left her to it and went out to the back yard. There weren't any workers out there. Like Gladys had said, there was just the hole. He moved closer to it and leaned to look down in it. It went down deep; it was too dark to see the bottom.

Suddenly he felt a sharp shove from behind and he nearly fell forward into the hole. He caught hold of one of the barricades and steadied himself. He could hear laughter from behind and, shooting a glare back, he saw the twins Troy and Bryan standing there laughing their asses off.

"Enjoy your trip, jerkoff?" one crowed.

"See you next fall!" laughed the other, clutching his middle in mirth.

Ben straightened. He was not amused. "Cute." He headed back toward the house, leaving the redheaded delinquents to their laughter at his expense. Not for the first time he found himself glad his boy would never grow older.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Feeling the angst yet? I know I am.

Next episode's slightly less depressing, I think. Violet reacts to Tate being a kid, Chad tells her a story of his youth, and we'll travel back to Murder House circa 1999.

I listened to Gary Jules 'Mad World' (Deadcom remix), the UNKLEsounds Edit of Nancy Sinatra's 'Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)', and Nine Inch Nails' 'In This Twilight' (Nuclear remix) a lot while writing this episode. You can find other songs in my playlist on my Profile.


	3. Chapter 3 - Kitchen & Bedroom

**3 days after the funeral** **(cont.)**

"He's a _kid_," Violet said. "You could have warned me."

"I told you he'd changed," said Chad. He leaned against the kitchen counter, hands behind him. "Trust me, he's _much_ easier to manage pint-sized."

Violet folded her arms and pushed one foot forward. "That's not the sort of change I thought you meant."

"So clarify next time," he dismissed. "I'm in the mood for a mint julep. You want one?"

She blinked. "What? Like, alcohol?" She shook her head. "I can't. I'm underage."

"Personally I feel dying entitles a person to get as drunk as they like, no matter what age." Chad turned to the refrigerator. "How old are you, anyway?" He shot her a conspiratorial look over his shoulder. "I know a lady doesn't tell her age but I can keep a secret."

"I'm-" Violet stopped. She thought about it. Then she counted on her fingers. "Holy shit."

Chad smirked and got out a pitcher and some bourbon. "So do you want one or not?"

Violet leaned on the island. "Uh. Sure. I guess."

She was having a little trouble grasping the fact that she was 23, going by birthdays. She hadn't really thought about birthdays since she died. Even before that she'd been pretty burnt out on birthday parties. She hadn't had a real one since she was 13. Her mom had wanted to do a Sweet 16 but Violet just wasn't into that sort of froofy nonsense. She sort of regretted that now. She lit a cigarette.

"You'll love it," Chad said as he set to work. "It's one of my favorite drinks. Not a winter cocktail though." He started to cut up some mint. "Age is a weird thing when you're dead. It really does lend truth to the whole 'you're only as old as you feel' shtick."

Violet watched what he did, moving to get a better view without abandoning the ashtray. "I still feel seventeen."

"Mm," said Chad. He poured out two long glasses of it, over some crushed ice. "I don't think you ever really feel different at a specific age. You just build on the layers of who you are."

He added an extra sprig of mint to the top along with a dusting of powdered sugar, then he poked a couple of straws in. He brought the two glasses over to the island. She accepted the one he handed her and set her cigarette down in the ashtray. She watched him take a drink before she did the same, sipping cautiously. She made a few faces, none of which were bad.

"I know the straws should be shorter but... Do we love it?" Chad prompted.

"It reminds me of breath spray," she said. "Not in a bad way."

Chad rolled his eyes. "Heathen."

She had another sip. "It's not bad."

Chad gave her a martyred look. "Fine, Miss Thing. Next time_ you_ mix something."

"I can't mix drinks," Violet said. "I don't know how."

"So teach yourself. You're on the computer more than the wi-fi is," said Chad. He played with his mint sprig idly. "Haven't you tried using it to learn something useful?"

"Mixing drinks is useful?" she said sarcastically.

He gave a short laugh. "More useful than those silly dress-up games you play." He saw her look and smiled. "Hey. I know how to read browser history as well as the next person. It's a very handy skill."

She allowed herself a smile and picked her cigarette back up. She had a puff then a sip of her drink and blinked, surprised. "Hey, that actually tasted better after smoking."

Chad humphed. "I've heard some people say alcohol improves tobacco and vice versa but I wouldn't know. My lungs are pure."

"Your lungs are gone," Violet smirked.

He arched a brow. "You're a mean drunk." He had a sip from his glass.

Violet found herself liking the drink more with each little sip. It was a new experience but not a bad one. The tingly feeling in her stomach seemed to be seeping out into the rest of her. She understood why Chad had said it wasn't a good winter drink. It made her feel chilly on the inside.

"So is Tate... a kid all the time?" she asked. She sucked on her cigarette and looked at Chad.

"No," said Chad. "But he is most of the time. I prefer him that way. It helps reinforce the idea that he's starting over. Amongst other things." He had a long drink to stop himself saying something he might regret.

"Seems pretty extreme," said Violet. She was surprised to notice her glass was missing half of its contents already.

Chad lowered his glass then shrugged. "So is killing a few dozen people." He had another long sip that drained his glass. He went for the pitcher. "Refill?"

She eyed her glass and shook her head. "I don't think so. I'm already feeling... fuzzy."

"More for me," he said and poured more into his glass. He returned the pitcher to the counter.

Violet reached for her cigarette but she'd already put it out at some point. So she lit another one.

"Does he talk about me?" she asked.

Chad smiled dryly. "Like a hobby." He waved her smoke back toward her. "He clings to the hope that you'll welcome him back with open arms if he performs Herculean tasks, et cetera. He's a sickeningly incurable romantic little shit. Though if you ask me, I think you're both better off apart."

Violet looked at him funny. "Why?"

"You can't make each other crazier if you're not around one another."

"Whatever," Violet said, jabbing him in the arm with a finger. "You're crazier than I ever could be. Who sorts the snack shelf by color when nobody's looking? Not me."

"That's your crazy mother's doing," Chad denied. He rubbed the spot she poked. "She's the one who's all neurotic about color coordination."

"Riiiight," said Violet with a smile. "She likes two colors: Plain and semi-plain."

That made Chad laugh.

The teen girl puffed on her cigarette. Her smile faded. "I just can't... get over Westfield." She tapped her ash and poked at it with the ember. "He killed fifteen people. He looked them in the eye and murdered them. I can't even remember how many people he hurt. How could somebody do that?"

Chad looked into his glass. It was a moment before he said anything. "I was in my senior year that year." He glanced over at Violet. "The year of the Westfield shootings. Did you know Tate, Pat and I were all born the same year? 1977. Weird but true."

Violet put her cigarette out, smushing it slowly around the ashtray. "Yeah, that is kind of a weird coincidence."

Chad had a drink before continuing. "Well. It probably won't shock you to know I've known since I was little that I was gay," he said after he set his glass down.

Violet smiled. "No, I can't say that really shocks me."

Chad returned the smile but it was a for-show-only expression. "Only boy in my graduating class who took Home Ec _and_ Interior Design as electives." He ditched the smile. "God, I hated high school. I hated school, period. The kids I went to school with were pigs. I won't even get into how many different ways they invented to make a person feel worthless. They had... games they would play. Like 'Smear the Queer'. The faculty never did anything." He took a long drink from his glass.

Violet never thought she'd find herself bonding with Chad about school but she understood what he was talking about. She'd been picked on for different reasons but knew too well what it felt like to be ganged up on. No reason was a good one.

"Most people suck," she said in alcohol-tinted honesty. "High school is like... gangland. Either you find a group that's big enough to keep you safe, you get beat up, or you spend your life hiding in the library."

"I fell into the second category," admitted Chad. "A lot."

"Yeah. Me too."

Chad sipped at his drink, debating whether to go on. Finally he said: "When I heard about the shootings... I was. Glad."

He didn't look at the girl beside him even though he could feel her stare. "Don't get me wrong. I don't really- I don't think what he did was _right_. I was still in high school when it happened... Not the same one but when I saw the news I couldn't help thinking about all of the assholes who hurt me and shunned me and called me names. Made me hate who I was. All those pretentious little fucks that went around acting like they were God's gift to the world. I saw _them _in the faces of the victims. And I remember thinking... Somebody finally got the balls to stand up and fight back."

He turned away to go get the pitcher and smudged a hand over his eyes quickly, thinking she didn't notice. When he came back to the island his face was masked in neutrality. He refilled his glass and hers, forgetting she didn't want more. He set the pitcher down on the island.

"But a lot of those people he hurt never even met him," Violet protested. "They couldn't have done anything to him."

"Yes," said Chad, lips pursing briefly. "Like I said, I don't think what he did was right. I don't really even know why he did it. He says he doesn't remember any of it. I feel horrible for the families. But I also understand what could make a person want to do something like that."

**...**

**1999**

"Oh. My. God. This is it. Here. Wait, wait. Take my picture."

Abbey turned her back to Murder House and paused her video recording. The goth-punk girl made a duck-face smile and put two fingers up in a loose peace sign. Justin snapped a picture of her. He'd borrowed the cameras from his high school film department. He was in film class so he had access to all kinds of fun equipment he and his friends used regularly for their personal projects.

As soon as he had the shot Abbey turned back to the dark house. "This is so. _Cool_. Totally worth the bus ride."

Justin took a few shots of the house. "This'll look sweet on black and white film."

"Come on," Abbey said and pushed past the gate. "Hurry up before someone sees us."

They'd timed their approach for midnight. It meant it would be harder to find their way around but it also meant they were less likely to be detected and kicked out. They'd snuck into many old buildings over the past couple of years and had the photo albums to prove it. But Murder House was number two on Abbey's personal wish list of places to explore. Winchester Mansion was number one.

Murder House they could get to by bus. So it was the moonlit yard of that house they hurried across. She and Justin slipped around back and found a gate that wasn't locked. They crept into the back yard and up onto the back porch.

"It doesn't have a lock box," Justin said. He tried the door. It was locked.

"Windows," said Abbey. She was already checking the nearest one. It was also locked.

Justin grinned at her. "Wouldn't it be stupid if we came all this way and we couldn't get in?"

She gave him a flat look. "No. That would be beyond stupid." She stepped back and craned her neck to see how far up the next windows were. Too high to reach. "Shit."

"We could break the window," Justin suggested.

Abbey frowned. "I don't know."

She didn't like the idea of breaking the window. She went over to the door and jiggled the handle. Then she shoved her shoulder into the door. It rattled in its frame.

"What are you doing?" Justin whispered urgently.

She didn't answer but rammed the door a little harder, just to see if the lock would budge. Something clattered down off the frame. The two teens looked down and saw a key. Abbey picked it up and, after a closer look, tried it in the lock. It worked. She pushed the door open and smiled at her friend.

"Whenever God locks a door, he provides a key," she said, waving him inside. She put the key back up on the door frame and closed the door once they were both inside.

She turned back on the video camera and swept it around the kitchen. "Do you think they ate breakfast together that morning?"

Justin shrugged and took a couple of pictures. "Would you eat breakfast with a guy you were gonna set on fire two hours later?"

Abbey thought about that. "I don't know. Maybe."

"You're twisted."

She smiled. "Come on. Let's go upstairs. I want to see his room."

She led the way to the stairs and paused to take in the way the moonlight filtered through the stained glass windows. Then she trotted up the staircase. She had spent hours studying the layout of the place. The only place she knew better in relation to the history was Westfield High itself.

Justin followed her down the hall, pausing occasionally to take a picture. "You set the video camera to night mode, right?"

"Of course," said Abbey. "I'm not stupid. Here. This is it."

She recorded herself pushing the door open. Then she entered the empty room. She went to the center and turned a complete, slow circle.

"Oh, wow," she breathed. "I can't believe I'm actually here." She looked down at the floor but couldn't see any blood stains. "Where do you think they shot him?"

Justin was still in the hall, taking pictures of her geeking out. He came in and took another picture. "I don't know. Hey. Lay down. Right there in the center. I want a picture of you looking dead."

She grinned and turned off the video recorder and set it down. "You're so fucking creative."

She took off her backpack and stretched out on the hard floor. She shifted about, put a hand in her black hair and turned her face to the side. "How's this?"

"Good," Justin said, snapping a few shots.

He suggested a couple of other poses, shot a few more frames, then motioned to the backpack. "You want to do the Ouija?"

She nodded and sat up. She pulled the board out, which took some effort because it wasn't meant to be carried in a Jansport. She got the indicator center piece out and put it on the board. Justin was about to join her at the game board when he heard something out in the hall. Abbey didn't hear it but she noticed his reaction.

"What?"

Justin waved a hand to shush her. "I think someone's out there. I'm gonna check it out."

She nodded. He went back out into the hall. She heard a thump and a short, surprised cry. Then another thump and then silence.

"Justin?" she hissed.

Silence.

She grabbed her backpack and the camera and crept over to the door. She peeked out into the hall. It was dark. She couldn't see Justin anywhere. He wasn't the type to play pranks so her thoughts turned to the most immediately threatening likelihood: A homeless person. She stepped out into the hall and looked around. She didn't see anyone so she went to the stairs and looked down. She saw Justin sprawled on the floor down below.

Tate would have shoved her down the stairs too but the front door opened right then and a pair of policemen entered. They'd been alerted by a neighbor who'd noticed the sightseers trying to force their way in through the back earlier.

"Freeze! Police!" said one of the cops when his flashlight passed over Abbey. The other policeman went over to Justin.

"I think my friend fell down the stairs," the goth girl said. "We were just taking pictures."

"Come down the stairs," said the cop with the flashlight. "You know you're trespassing."

Tate watched her go from the shadows. He didn't want the cops to see him. He didn't mind if they made the other people go away. It would make things easier for him. He'd been prepared to roll both of the intruders out into the street himself. Eventually someone would buy the place and he would have to deal with it. He understood that now. But he wasn't going to let just anybody creep around his home like it was a carnival attraction.

Once the people were gone Tate went back to his room. The furniture had come back now that the invaders were gone. But they had left their Ouija board behind. It was still on the floor beside his bed.

He sat down cross-legged next to it and picked up the spade-shaped indicator. He hadn't had anything new to play with in years. He smiled and set the piece back down on the board. He used it to spell out a couple of curse words and then his name. Then he picked up both the board and the indicator planchette and took them down to the basement. He wanted to show Mrs. Nora and Dr. Charles his new toy.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Sorry if the last couple of chapters were rough. Maybe this one wasn't so much?

Chad and Pat's birth years are based on the RL actors' - which also happens to be the same year as Tate's is in the show's timeline. Odd but true. When I saw that how could I not use it?

In the 1999 segment Justin Sane and Abbey Normal contributed the Ouija board Tate shows to Violet later. I don't know why but I always wanted some back story there. The characters are original, one being based on a guy I once knew and one having a name inspired by Mel Brooks' _Young Frankenstein_. As a side note, it was very hard to locate what the heck a Ouija indicator is called. The things I research in the name of fiction...

Next chapter we'll be doing some dream therapy then it's back to 2010 to spy on Chad and Patrick in their mortal days.


	4. Chapter 4 - Dreams & Fantasies

**2018 - 3 nights after the funeral**

Violet kept to herself most of the day, trying to come to a decision about Tate without success. Her talk with Chad had only muddled her feelings more. Toward the evening she decided to contact Billie Dean. The woman wasn't on her Instant Messenger so Violet sent her an email instead, asking her to come over the next day.

She closed the laptop and pushed it aside. Then she folded her arms, rested her cheek atop them and shut her eyes. She did want to talk to Tate, quite badly in fact, but it would be too weird to talk to him as a child. She had no idea what she would say to him even if he looked his normal age. Chad said Tate missed her but it had been seven years. Did he even really remember her? They'd only known each other a short time.

And yet she remembered every little detail about her time spent with him. Some days she spent reliving those memories in her mind. They were more pleasant than the drudgery of most days in Murder House. She started to drift off while reflecting. Being awake shifted seamless into an awake-like dream where Tate was crouching over her as she lay, dressed in that shiny black rubber suit.

Violet woke with a start and pushed herself up a bit. She looked about, relaxing only when she was sure she was alone. She wasn't sleepy anymore.

...

"It's just for a few nights," Ben said.

Vivien bounced Joshua gently but her expression toward Ben was disapproving. "I can't believe you're doing this."

He was beginning to get tired of her constantly tearing him down. "It's a few nights out of the last few hundred we've spent together. I'm not even going to be gone during the days."

She wasn't reassured. "This is turning into an obsession."

"I'm just trying to help a kid who never got a fair shake from life," Ben said, finding it hard to keep his annoyance in check. "I'm sorry that's so hard for you to understand, Vivien."

She stopped bouncing the baby and stared at him, stunned. "Have you forgotten what he did to me?"

He picked up the small duffel bag he'd packed. "What exactly did he do again, Viv? Say yes? Or did he get a chance to say anything before you pulled him into our bed?"

She hugged the baby closer as tears welled up in her eyes. She was too shocked and wounded to speak.

Ben felt guilty but he couldn't back down. So he just didn't look at her. "It's amazing the things you learn in therapy." He shouldered his bag. "'Night, Vivien. Ni-night, Joshua."

He walked out then, leaving her stunned look behind.

...

Ben never knew about Patrick's plan to monitor his activities. Chad's accusations had eaten at him so much that the he'd abandoned the plan. Instead Pat spent the first night of dream therapy lifting weights and trying not to think about what the good doctor might be doing.

It bothered Pat that he couldn't get the matter off his mind. It also bothered him that, as rude as he was, Chad was usually right about his observations. Of course he was right about the sex, even if Patrick hadn't really admitted it. But he felt entitled. He'd backed off his old deal like he agreed to but, as a trapped murder victim with little chance of escape, he still felt owed whatever he wanted of Tate's existence. Patrick had just found something else to want.

That, to him, trumped Ben's dodgy notions of therapy. He was certain the shrink's intentions had nothing to do with healing or helping. The fact that it might have a bad effect on Tate bothered Pat even more than the plan to drug his food had.

But there was no way to convince Chad of anything now. Regardless of what he believed, though, Patrick was genuinely concerned. However, without Chad's support he didn't know what to do about it. All of his impulses felt wrong. It was a frustration that kept him awake and restless for hours.

...

For Ben, books were meant to be his company but it took Tate a long time to go to sleep. The boy wanted to talk to Dr. Harmon about everything from dreams to constellations. Ben had humored him at first but after an hour he grew comfortable with telling his child-sized patient to go to sleep. Eventually Tate quieted down long enough to do so. It was another two hours before Ben set aside his novel and gave the sleeping boy a closer look.

Ben couldn't 'feel' any dreams. He wasn't sure if it was because there weren't any to feel or if it was because he wasn't wearing the suit. He had hoped he wouldn't have to use it. He got a black nylon zippered case out the duffel and took a syringe from it. Carefully and quietly he injected his sleeping patient, who flinched only a little when the needle slid in.

The doctor put the syringe away and waited a bit longer. Then he leaned in and put a hand over Tate's forehead. He waited. He still couldn't feel anything. He cursed under his breath and went back to the duffel bag. He would have to use the suit.

... ...

"There," Ben said. "That should do it. Can you see the moon now?"

He stood back from the telescope and looked up at the full moon that shone brightly in the night sky.

"...No." Tate straightened and smiled, dimples showing. "I feel like I'm trying to spot a UFO."

"Hmm. Scoot over. Let me see what we did wrong."

He changed places with the boy again and looked through the telescope. He tweaked a couple of knobs and adjusted the tilt of the tripod. "Ah! There she is. Luna at last."

Ben moved out of the way and Tate stepped up to the eyepiece. He looked through and wrinkled his nose. "It's kind of blurry."

"Yeah," sighed Ben. He looked up at the moon, his hands on his hips. "I guess when you only pay ten dollars for a telescope, you get what you pay for."

"Next time we should pay the extra five bucks for the 'focus' knob," said Tate. He squinted at the spot of light for a few moments, then said:"Hey, dad? Is there really a star named Wormwood?"

The question was an unusual one but Ben actually had the answer. Finally that college course in Religious Studies would pay off. "No. Not in astronomy as we know it. Some think it will be a comet in the future but... no. The Wormwood in the bible isn't a star as we know it. It's an angel. Apsinthion is another name for it."

"Really?" Tate glanced up at him briefly. "So when Wormwood falls to earth, it's not a comet but an angel? But I thought that the angel fell before, like, when time began? Wormwood doesn't happen till the end."

"Two different angels," said Ben. "Lucifer was the first. Wormwood is the last."

Tate fiddled with the knobs. "Do they have a telescope at the planetarium that you can look through?" he asked after a few moments. "I can't tell if I'm seeing craters or smudges on the lens."

Ben shrugged and lit a cigarette. "I'm not sure. I don't think so. Although you can see a laser light show there to the tunes of _Footloose_."

"Great, dad," Tate said, straightening to throw his father a grossed-out look. "I ask for the moon and you give me Sweatin' to the Oldies."

They both laughed. Then they heard Constance calling them to dinner. Ben sucked another couple of quick puffs from his cigarette before snuffing it in the ashtray. Then they both went inside.

...

It was the best dream Tate had in decades. For anyone else it would have been excruciatingly normal, with Ben and Constance happily married and Beau and Addie and Tate healthy and happy and boringly normal. But for him it was heaven. For Ben, it was insightful. Weeks flew by in the span of hours.

Then Constance and Ben began to fight. He caught her cheating with the neighbor and that was the last fight between them. He packed two suitcases and prepared to leave. Tate could do nothing but stand by and watch. It was horrific. He knew he would never see his father again.

Then Ben stopped at the door and he turned to look back at him. "Tate," he said. "You're dreaming."

Tate blinked a few times. Tears dripped off his chin. "What?"

"You're having a nightmare."

"I am?"

Ben nodded and smiled warmly. "Yes. Go back to bed now. When you wake up it'll be over."

Tate hesitated but Ben's smile reassured him so he went back to his room and crawled into bed. He suddenly had his pajamas on so he knew his dad had been right. It was just a dream. A weird, bad dream.

He tugged the covers up and shut his eyes and sighed.

He smiled in his sleep

... ...

Ben pulled off the hood. He had to resist the urge to sit down; he was worn out. He stripped the suit and put it and the hood back into his bag. Then he got dressed. Only then did he let himself sag into the seat near the bed. His head dropped against the back of the chair and he shut his eyes. He grew chilly as the sweat cooled on his skin but he didn't bother getting up to get a blanket.

Despite the exhaustion, he felt good. Better than good. He felt exquisite. It was the first time he'd managed to almost completely shape a dream. It hadn't been easy. He'd had to fight against Tate's Id the whole time to weed out all kinds of crazy things. At some point he wanted to confront that primal core and see what secrets he could pull from it. But not till he was sure he could best it.

They both slept in that morning.

**...**

**2010**

It was incredibly late - or extremely early, depending on how one chose to view the time - when Patrick settled into the straight-backed designer sofa in the 'great room' downstairs. It was the first room Chad had tackled with his HGTV curb appeal tips. It looked showroom perfect. It was about as comfortable as cold storage but it offered solitude at that hour.

Patrick booted up his laptop and squinted against the glare. He wasn't really awake so his body resisted the light. The ghost piloting him used the man's hands to type a location into the browser.

"What're you doing?" Tate asked from the doorway.

Sam Argento, a well-built guy with short dark brown hair, glanced over from where he was standing behind the couch and grinned at the teenager. "Just helping our buddy out."

Tate moved to where he could read over Patrick's other shoulder and frowned. "Boys in Bondage?" He eyed Sam and then looked back at the computer again. "Hey. That's not cool. Just because you're into that shit-"

"Oh, grow up," Sam said as he scrolled through the website. "Our buddy's no angel. He's a total freak. You should see his web history. It's insane."

"You shouldn't do that," Tate said, frowning. He stuffed his fingers in his back pockets and shifted his weight. "They're already having problems. They don't need you making it worse. They're supposed to have a baby for Mrs. Montgomery. They can't have a baby if they're fighting all the time."

Sam snorted derisively. "Like I care. Everybody knows these homos aren't going to last. I'm seeing what I can see of the internet while I can."

Since talking to the other guy was only making Tate angry, he went around the couch and pulled the cord out of the laptop. It dropped to the floor. The laptop display dimmed slightly but nothing else happened. Sam snickered. Patrick leaned over, picked the cord back up and plugged it in.

"Ain't the future grand?" Sam smiled. "Maybe one day they'll make a personal computer that doesn't even need batteries. I'm keeping that one."

By that point Patrick was awake enough to do his own browsing so the ghost hopped over the back of the couch and sat next to him to watch.

"Does your wife know you're off your leash?" Tate said nastily.

It didn't bother Sam. "She lets me off every now and then, for good behavior."

Tate unplugged the laptop cord again just to be a pain, since he knew it wouldn't affect the performance of the computer. Patrick just picked it up again. The teen went around the back of the couch and looked over the man's shoulder again.

"Holy shit," he said when he saw what was on the screen.

Sam grinned broadly. "I told you he was a freak. How would you like to wear that thing?"

"I don't think you can without surgery first," said Tate. He frowned. He didn't want to be drawn into caring about what was on the screen. But it was distracting. "Why do people want to do that kind of shit anyways?"

"Don't knock it till you've tried it, junior," said Sam.

Tate smirked. "Like I'd take the word of Dog Boy."

"You know what topping from the bottom is?"

"Gee, I don't know," said Tate, rolling his eyes. "Upside-down nachos?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "When you've learned, we'll talk."

"I know what it- Oh, my God!" Tate exclaimed when the next set of images came up on the screen. He covered his eyes. After a moment he asked: "Is it gone?"

"Yeah."

Tate peeked and saw the same set of pictures. He covered his eyes again. "Aaah! You fucking liar!"

Sam laughed. "Come on. It's not that bad. It's just a tube."

"It's where the tube is, that's what bothers me," said Tate without uncovering his eyes.

"Okay. It's gone now."

"You're lying."

"No," Sam said. "Honest. He's on a different page now."

Tate parted his fingers and then recoiled. "That's not any better!"

"Sure it is," argued Sam happily. "That's clearly not a tube. I'm not sure _what_ they call that but it's definitely not a tube."

"But it's in the same place!" objected Tate.

Sam laughed again. He was having too much fun. Tate decided it was time to end that. He moved back around the couch and went to push the power button on the laptop. Sam saw what he was about to do and intercepted him, catching his hand. A contest of wills ensued. While they struggled Patrick continued to surf, unaware.

A few things happened then: Tate managed to mash his finger down on the power button and hold it long enough to shut the machine off. Sam, not inclined to just give up, pulled back on Tate's finger until it snapped, which caused both of them to bump the screen of the laptop, knocking it to the floor.

"Ow! Motherfucker!" Tate swore as he scrambled back. He hopped around, shaking his finger. "You broke my finger, you dick!"

Patrick cursed and picked up the computer. He assumed it slipped off his lap. He tried the power button. Nothing happened.

"You broke the computer," Sam said. "Way to go, dumbass."

Tate sucked on his finger and tried to focus on making the pain go away but he really wanted to argue with Sam about the computer. So he pulled his finger out of his mouth and let it hurt a bit longer.

"That wasn't my fault," he said. Angry tears stung his eyes. "You did that. You broke my fucking finger!"

"Your finger will be fine," said Sam. "The laptop's dead."

Patrick tried the power button a couple more times then closed the laptop. He sighed and ran his hands through his short hair. Then he yawned.

"He'll get it fixed," Tate grumped. He shook his hand but the pain persisted. "You didn't have to break my finger."

"You didn't have to turn the computer off," said Sam. He got up and headed for the door.

The dismissal only made Tate madder. He waited until Sam was almost past him then he tried to sucker-punch the man. He surprised him but Sam ducked and Tate's knuckles just grazed his head. Sam was pissed. He rebounded with a punch of his own and caught the teen under the chin, knocking him back.

"Take a swing at me?" Sam said.

He threw a quick rabbit punch next, hitting Tate in the left kidney. The teenager dropped, both arms hugging his side. Sam was ready for another round but it was obvious the fight was already over.

"Don't you know not to approach strange dogs when they're off the leash?" he scoffed. Then he left.

Patrick meanwhile had already left the room, taking the broken computer with him.

Feeling like crap, Tate picked himself up and retreated to the master bedroom. Pat had returned to bed where Chad was still sleeping. Tate curled up on the cream colored sofa across the room. He watched the couple for a long time while he healed the damage from the scuffle downstairs. He wished things were like they had been when the men had first moved in.

...

A week later Pat sat naked on the edge of the bed, elbows on his thighs. Chad was in the bed and had the blankets pulled up around his waist.

"You know I can't enjoy it when it hurts," he said to his lover's back. "And when you get rough like that, it hurts."

Patrick was fed up with being understanding. He knew it wasn't about pain tolerance. It was a power trip for Chad. Pat hadn't been doing exactly what he wanted lately so Chad held sex hostage, neatly wrapped in an untouchable 'it's your fault' package. Patrick rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He just wanted to have a quick roll in the hay before sleep. Not a living episode of _90210_.

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt if we actually did it more often," he muttered.

"Maybe we'd do it more if I didn't have to worry about being treated like a slut in one of those porn videos you jerk off to," Chad fired back. "I don't want to feel like some back alley rent boy, thank you."

"It's not being a slut to take the brakes off every once in a while," defended Patrick, turning a little so he could glare at his mate. "You know, not stopping to put a towel down first for once? You fuck like an old woman drives."

"Well pardon me if I don't like to be slapped on the ass every time we make love," said Chad, widening his eyes in a martyred way. He pulled the covers up a little higher and smoothed them out.

Patrick groaned. "That again? Christ, Chad. I only did it that one time. I apologized. What do I have to do, sacrifice a goat?"

"It would help if your apology didn't sound like you were only saying it to placate me."

"Now I'm saying things the wrong way." Patrick laughed bitterly and threw his arms up in a defeatist shrug. "You know what? Maybe you should just give me a manual on exactly how to live since I obviously fail at it so badly."

"Oh, don't act like you don't know the difference between a sincere apology and saying something just so I'll let you stick your dick in your hole of choice," said Chad, folding his arms.

Patrick got up then and went to the dresser. He started to put on his clothes. Chad watched him unhappily.

"Now you're going to run off to the bar," he said morosely.

Pat slammed the dresser drawers. "No, I'm going to go downstairs. Maybe jerk off to a few porn videos."

Chad waited till Pat was at the door to say, "The laptop's still at the shop."

Patrick squeezed the doorknob briefly but tight enough to hurt the bones in his hand. "I'll use my imagination," he growled. Then he left the room.

He went downstairs with the intention of going to the kitchen but he was intercepted by one of the house's many phantoms. While he was distracted stewing over the argument with Chad, he wound up going to the library instead.

He was steered to a shelf where he found the book _120 Days of Sodom - The School of Libertinism_ by the Marquis de Sade. The words on the spine were intriguing. The books in the library had come with the estate, as had a lot of the furniture, but Patrick had never taken the time to look at what was actually there. He pulled the book down and carried it over to the settee - Chad's addition to the room.

Of course Pat had heard of the Marquis - who hadn't? But what he found in those pages was shocking enough to keep him reading for the next few hours. The ghost of Nikki Argento had heard from her husband about the broken computer - she'd punished Sam well for his part in it. But she thought she should lend Pat a book from her personal collection as a consolation while he waited for his laptop to be repaired. Once she saw that he appreciated her gift, she left him to it.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Wow. That chapter got unexpectedly long. But it was either that or two strangely short chapters. I think I picked the lesser of two evils.

So does anyone else want to smack Ben upside the head? I wish he'd either be a total jerk or totally helpful. His being both and neither at once annoys me.

Oh, and the book that Nikki gave to Patrick is one that (according to the 'You're Going To Die In There' website) was found at the scene of Nikki and Sam's murders. There's a description of the contents of the book on Wikipedia. I don't recommend even reading that. It's vile. Seriously.

Next chapter: Moms and more from 2010. A little bit of up and down for the emotional roller coaster.


	5. Chapter 5 - Upstairs, Downstairs

**2018 - present day**

Vivien left Joshua with Nora for the day so she could have some time to herself. Of course Nora believed it was Vivien's day off. She was a sweet woman but her memory was so flawed that Vivien never faulted her for her strange beliefs. It was much easier to agree with her and have the intermittent help caring for the infant. Vivien knew she could just as easily have been like Nora. Or worse.

She spent her free time playing her cello in the music room on the third floor. Few of the other ghosts went in there and she had the room all to herself that morning. She sawed out somber Bach and Beethoven into the hollow chamber. It was the perfect room for acoustics, especially when the door was closed and her back was to the windows.

She'd been going over what Ben had said to her since he walked out of the room last night. Obviously Tate had said something about that night that had upset Ben. Vivien's memory of the events had been unreliable even when they were fresh. Years of actively trying not to think about it had successfully clouded the whole experience. All she had left were impressions: Intense sensation. A rubber suit. Ben.

She stopped playing and used her hand that held the neck of her instrument as a cushion for her forehead. She felt like she was being put on trial a second time for a crime she never committed; the victim of an unfair witch hunt. Again. She considered talking to Chad about it but he couldn't be relied on, given his situation with Tate. Being confined to a limited population had drawbacks she'd never considered outside the context of prison.

Vivien sighed and tipped her head back so her hair would fall away from her face. She knew she would have to talk to Ben. But it could wait until after his latest experiment was done. He would focus better if he wasn't distracted. She'd learned that much about him over the years. A fight with him now wouldn't get anyone anywhere. So she would continue to play the dutiful housewife with him in front of Violet, for the girl's sake. Vivien knew how to wait.

She lifted her bow and began to play again.

...

Ben and Constance were both sitting in the boxy leather chairs in Ben's office. They were both smoking cigarettes and looking at each other.

"You're looking well, Constance," Ben said.

And she was. Once she'd figured out she could alter her appearance Constance had started winding the clock back. Just tiny increments for the time being; she didn't want it to be too noticeable to the people who were used to seeing her.

"Thank you," she smiled and patted her hair with one hand. "New hairdresser." She tapped her ash then pressed her palms together, with the hand on top holding the cigarette. "I was wonderin', Ben, how... How do you think my son is doin'?"

"It's funny you should ask," the doctor said. "We just started a new type of therapy... Lucid dreaming. I mean, we literally just started last night. But I think it went well."

She was puzzled by the answer but thought it sounded like good news. Which gave her hope. "Lucid dreamin'? How's that work?" She paused, then added: "This doesn't involve the gays, does it?"

"No," Ben said. "No, it doesn't. Just Tate and me. It's a type of therapy that involves teaching the patient to recognize when they're having a dream, while they're having it. Essentially it's learned nightmare control."

"And you think it'll help him?"

Ben nodded and put his cigarette out. "He told me this morning that last night was the first night in weeks that he didn't have any nightmares."

"Really?" Now Constance was surprised. "It works that fast?"

"So far, so good."

"Huh," she said. She sucked on her cigarette. "Well. I'd like it if your future treatments don't include those homosexuals. I don't want them influencin' my son."

"I'll keep that in mind," Ben said smoothly. He had no qualms with lying to her. "Lucid dreaming is a solo process once the patient grasps how to do it. Hopefully this will help your son learn to help himself."

She smiled faintly and put her cigarette out. "I appreciate your lookin' out for him, Ben. I'd thought you might be the one to help him get out of this place but... I think I know now that there's- there is no gettin' out. But I know my boy needs your help. Especially if he's stuck here."

Ben leaned forward and took her hand. She looked at him in surprise but she didn't pull away. "I promise you I'll do what I can to help your son."

He let go of her. She withdrew her hand and pressed it to her collarbone. "I'm countin' on you," she said.

...

After her visit with Dr. Harmon, Constance went looking for her son. She didn't even have to call him; Tate met her at the stairs.

"Hi," he said and he gave her a little smile.

That in itself was a drastic improvement over the last few times she'd seen him. She pulled him in close for a hug. "How are you, honey?" She released him to look at his face and pet his messy hair away from his eyes.

"I'm okay," he said. "How're you?"

"I'm just fine, sweetheart. Doctor Harmon said you and he are doin' some kind of new dream therapy."

Tate nodded and brightened a little. "Yeah. It's kind of neat. I had a dream last night where he told me I was dreaming and I was. Kind of like the perpetual mirror in a mirror thing."

Constance smiled and pet his hair some more. The blond mess resisted being smoothed down; it wanted to be unruly. "Well, I hope it works. You don't look as tired as you did last time."

"I'm not," he agreed. He tugged his sleeves over his fingers. "Mama? You know, it's going to be my birthday soon..."

She stopped messing with his hair and looked at him quizzically. "Sweetheart, you don't have birthdays anymore."

He frowned a little but the look passed quickly. "I want to have a birthday party. Since Michael's got canceled. We could have it next month, when my real birthday would be. I want Michael to come. Okay?"

There was nothing inherently wrong with the idea but Constance couldn't help thinking it wasn't a good one. As always, she trusted her gut instincts. "I'll think about it," she said.

He knew what that meant. "Come on, please?" he said, tears welling up. "It's just one party. You'll be there! Please? Pleeease? I won't ask for anything else for the rest of the year."

She didn't believe him but the promise was cute. It softened her resolve. "I said I'll think about it. Now stop beggin'. I'm bringin' Billie Dean back later. I'll tell you what I've decided then."

Tate heard the medium's name and winced. But he caught himself before saying anything. He needed to stay on his mother's good side until he was sure he'd get his party. So he just nodded. "Okay. When will you be back?"

"I haven't even left yet!" she mock-scolded. Constance actually found her son's enthusiasm refreshing, if pestiferous. She hadn't seen him so animated about something in months. "Why don't you run along now. I'm goin' to go see if I can find Travis. Give me a kiss."

She collected her goodbye hug and kiss then went upstairs. Constance didn't yet know how to deliberately home in on another ghost but she could tell her dead boyfriend was somewhere above. She followed that impression and found it got stronger when she was moving in the right direction.

She found Travis in one of the third floor rooms, sitting at an old roll-top writing desk with a thin notebook computer. The Black Dahlia girl was with him, much to Constance's displeasure. Travis smiled at her when she came over to where he was sitting. She put a hand on his back, just below his neck and gave Elizabeth a tight smile.

"Hey, Constance! Look," Travis said, turning the computer a little so he could show her the screen. It was a ghost hunting website. "Me and Beth are _total_ celebs!"

Mission: Paranormal had done a full section on their abbreviated tour of Murder House. Travis and Elizabeth's photos both featured prominently. A square ad-box announced their intent to return to the house for a second investigation. Constance glanced at the site but didn't bother reading any of it. She was unimpressed.

"Wonderful," she said sarcastically. "You made the front cover of Weekly World News. Every crackpot in the nation can pin you to their wall."

"It's Mission: Paranormal," Travis corrected, missing the insult entirely. "Me and Beth set up a Tumblr account. Check it out: We're going to pretend we're fans pretending to be us. Get it? And we're going to post pictures and stuff. People'll think it's people posting as us but it'll really _be_ us."

Constance could tell he felt very clever. Normally she'd throw him the ego boost he so obviously craved but she wasn't about to praise anything that also involved Elizabeth.

"How interestin'," the blonde woman said dismissively. "Travis? Could I have a moment of your time... in private?"

She shot Elizabeth a look that invited her to die a second time. The black-haired woman looked vaguely wounded and confused.

"I'll... talk to you later, Travis," Beth said.

He looked disappointed. "Oh. Okay." Then he smiled at Constance again. "I figured out how to link the Tumblr account to the videos the paranormal dudes made. It's like I'm my own agent. We have fans!"

Constance waited till Elizabeth left the room then she pushed the computer away from Travis's hands and sat down in his lap. It had been years since she'd gotten physical with him so he was a surprised at first. It didn't take him long to shift gears. But it never occurred to him, even in the middle of screwing her on the desk, that Constance was dead like him.

**...**

**2010**

Tate didn't often stay around for the fights. The men never got physical but the verbal cruelty was just as bad. He didn't want to hear them berate each other over how fat Chad had let himself get or how many dicks Pat had sucked lately. So Tate hid in the basement where he couldn't hear them. They fought almost every day now so he hid downstairs most of the time.

He had some old toys in the basement to occupy himself with. They weren't as interesting as life had been upstairs when things were nice but the Matchbox cars and Star Wars figures didn't fight unless he wanted them to. Which he did. But they played by his rules: They only killed each other. They didn't say mean things first.

"If you're that bored," Nikki said behind him. "I've got some books you can look at."

Tate stopped rolling the fire truck over the Ewok chief but he didn't look back at her. "What do you want?"

"To apologize," she said. He could tell she'd moved closer to him by where her voice was. "I was hoping to catch you someplace less dank but I haven't seen you topside. Sam told me about the laptop... And how he hurt you."

Tate didn't like how she sounded. She sounded the same way his mother did when she wanted something from a man. "He didn't hurt me."

"It's okay," said Nikki. "I hurt him back. He won't do it again."

She was right behind him now. He glanced to the side and he could see her thigh right next to his head. It was wrapped in black fishnet.

"I'd really like to make it up to you," she said. She ran her fingers through his hair.

He ducked away from her hand, scowling. "Don't."

"I don't bite," said Nikki. "Unless I'm asked to. I'll leave you to your... toys. If you want to see what the big kids play with, look me up sometime."

She left him alone then. Tate took an angry swipe at the toys on the floor, scattering them. Then he hugged his knees under his chin and sulked. He knew Nikki was trying to be nice to him, in her weird way. He didn't want her to be nice though. He wanted the owners of the house to be nice to each other.

But they weren't. Patrick was cheating and Chad was slowly going crazy. They were going to get divorced or whatever gay people did and there would be no baby. Mrs. Nora would be upset. She'd been so happy since Tate had promised her there was a baby coming.

He put his forehead down on his knees and circled his head with his arms as the tears started to fall. Things had to get better. He didn't want to tell her there wasn't going to be a baby.

...

It was almost Halloween. Chad and Patrick were fighting again. It started so quickly, Tate didn't have a chance to get away from them before things got ugly. That's when he found out they were trying to sell the house. A fight over pumpkins and apples turned into the death of a dream. Patrick was going to leave, just like Tate's dad had. And Chad was going to let him, just like Constance had.

Tate wasn't prepared for the harsh way the realization hit him. It was like having his insides pulled out. And as bad as the pain was, the anger was worse. It felt like it was burning up the place where his guts had been. He went to their bedroom, partially because it was a familiar retreat and partly with the intent to destroy the place. But then he saw the black rubber suit.

It made him think of dark super-heroes and KMFDM. And suddenly he knew what he had to do. He replaced his clothes with the tight second skin of shiny black. Putting it on felt like he was suiting up for the Noble War. And no mission could be more noble: He was saving a marriage.

Mrs. Nora was upset when she found their brutalized corpses in the basement and the tears on Tate's face confused her. But after he explained to her that the men had changed their minds about having a baby, she agreed that they needed to make way for a couple who would have one.

Tate stayed with the bodies until someone came to find them.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

And that's love, then and now, in the Murder House.

In an earlier episode, when Tate told Chad he didn't know he'd get stuck in the house when he killed them, he wasn't being entirely honest (shocker, I know). What he meant was that by preventing Pat and Chad from ever leaving, he thought everything would go back to being perfect. His black rose for them. Yes, everybody Tate likes ends up dead and stuck with him. Everybody except Michael, so far.

There's a couple more bipolar chapters to this episode then things get weird. Er. Weirder. Episode 6 is all about memories and we know how tricky they can be.


	6. Chapter 6 - Parlor Tricks & Parties

**2018 **

Billie Dean and Violet sat in the living room together while Constance went to find her son. They were on the long couch, Billie Dean prim in her cream-colored skirt and satin top and Violet hunched over, wearing her favored layers of earth-tone comfort clothes. She had a cigarette in one hand and kept it near her chin for easy access.

"I really want to see him," Violet admitted. "But it's weird. It's like... There's something holding me back. I don't know. I've had a lot of weird dreams. Sometimes I forget what's a dream and what's real."

Billie Dean nodded sympathetically. "I've heard that from other spirits. I think it's important to try to... to be as human as you can when you're awake. Doing the things you would do if you were alive helps keep the memory fresh. When you always skip the stairs, for instance," she smiled at Violet's sheepish expression. Then she got serious again. "Reality starts to slip away more rapidly. I believe you're only as bound to this reality as you choose to be, Violet. But if you lose touch with it, it can be hard to find your way back. Most that I've seen don't."

Violet frowned at that last bit. "What do you mean, they don't?"

The medium lit a cigarette and leaned back into the corner of the sofa. "It's easier to lose aspects of humanity than it is to regain them. I think there's a trade-off. Whatever a spirit gains from losing that humanity... they have to surrender in order to be like a human again. Does that make sense?"

"Not... really," said Violet.

Billie Dean nodded; her flipped blonde hair didn't move. "Think about the stairs. Humans cannot go from the second floor to the first floor without using them. If you stop using the stairs, you are automatically a little less human."

Violet got that and it scored too close for comfort. She nodded and sucked on her cigarette as she could tell her friend wasn't finished.

"In order to become more human, you have to give up the luxury of going where ever you want in the house on a whim." Billie Dean spread her hands. "Now a simple matter of stairs isn't going to change a ghost from being like you to being something out of the Amityville Horror. But where do you draw your line at?"

"I can't make the walls bleed," Violet said.

"You can't," the medium agreed, exhaling smoke. "But there are spirits here who could. Under the right circumstances I bet they would."

Violet glanced around reflexively even though there was nothing special to be seen. She put her cigarette out after another drag. "How do they do it?"

Billie Dean shrugged. "I have no clue. I try to avoid spirits that can do things like that. They tend to be... more unpredictable. It seems to be part of the trade. You aren't just losing the stairs. You're gaining the ability to move through space in ways no human can. Can you tell me how you do it?"

The girl blinked a few times. "I... guess. Well. I could but I don't think it would make any sense to you since you can't do it."

"Try me."

Violet took a breath. "It's like... You go to step forward only instead of your foot landing on the floor in the room you're in, you just sort of... move forward a little more, um, it's like quickly only you don't speed up. You just sort of picture where you're moving to. Only it's like you can see where you're going. Like where you are and where you want to be sort of blur and when you get done stepping forward, you're just... there."

Billie Dean smiled. "I think I understand what you mean." She put her cigarette out.

Violet pulled her legs up into a criss-cross position. "So you think maybe that's how others, they do things like the blood? They see it happen and so it does?"

She looked up at the wall and concentrated. Nothing happened. Probably just as well; half a dozen ghosts would probably freak out at her if she got blood all over the place.

"I wish I knew," said Billie Dean. "But I don't even understand how I do what I do. Why should I be able to sit here talking to the ghost of a dead girl? But I can't turn it off. Everywhere I go, I see dead people." She laughed. "It's true. Sometimes I pretend like I don't see them because so many think they can tie up their pasts if they just find someone who can hear them."

"Is the world that crowded with ghosts?"

Billie Dean nodded then tipped her head. "What's interesting to me is how few there are in relation to how many people have died throughout time. When you think about how long people have been alive - and dying - it's actually a very small amount of individuals who wind up stuck here. It's why I find places like this house fascinating. It's in areas like these that the truth of the universe can be found."

Violet smiled. "You sound like a Nostradamus DVD commercial."

...

Constance didn't have to look for Tate; he was right out in the hall waiting for her. He looked at her with unbridled hope and expectation. She went over to him and straightened his sweater. Then she pet his cheeks with both of her hands. His hope was such a delicate thing. Beautiful to behold, so easy to crush.

"After what happened last time I should never let Michael come over here again," she said. She tried to sound stern but he was already beaming at her. He knew her too well. There was no sense trying to string him along so she relented. "I'll bring him to your party. But only for two hours."

"Thank you!" Tate cheered and grabbed her in an enthusiastic hug. "Thank you, mama, thank you sooo much!"

She let him carry on for a little bit then patted his back till she got his attention. "Don't make me regret this," she said, fixing him with a penetrating look.

He let go of her and looked sincere. "I won't." Then he was hugging her again. "Thank you!"

Constance gave him a squeeze but the teenager was too big to hang off her like he was trying to do. "All right, honey. You're goin' to knock us both over."

Tate released her again and put on his sweetest face. "It's okay if Chad helps with the party, right?"

Her expression hardened but she wasn't surprised. "So much for your not asking for anything more all year."

"I can't do a party by myself," Tate said. "And the priest and Michael'll expect at least one of my so-called parents to be there."

"Why couldn't you have told them Doctor Harmon was your daddy?" she said, still frowning.

"Because Pat was the one who was with me when the priest came to the door," said Tate. It was almost the truth. Sort of.

She waved a hand, dismissing the whole matter. "It's your party. Do what you want. But don't ever say I never let you have your way."

...

When he went looking for him later, Tate found Chad easy enough to find. He was clearing the central ducts and he was more than happy to complain to someone about it.

"I just cleaned them three months ago. They never run," he said. "And yet every month they're black and spewing shit on the ceiling thick enough to make blankets for small villages. I'm so glad I'm not breathing this crap in every day." He pulled his head out of the vent and then peered at Tate oddly.

"I'm going to have a party," Tate told him happily. "Can you help me with it?"

Chad found the request both flattering and slightly interesting. But. "I'm not helping you do anything with you looking like that. And seriously, Tate. The hair? _Again_?"

Tate looked deeply pained. "Fuck!"

The teen shrank to boy size as Chad closed up the vent. Tate pouted at him.

"Don't look at me like that," said Chad. He dusted himself off. "You _know_ the rule. And you _know_ the consequences."

"It's not fair!"objected Tate. "My mother-"

"You always have _some_ excuse. But I noticed you haven't eaten a single one of your sweaters recently." Chad's look dared him to challenge the statement. "Come on. We'll talk about your party later, over dinner."

...

The hairbrush dampened Tate's enthusiasm quite a bit. At dinnertime it was Chad who had to bring the subject of the party up again as the boy was too busy sulking to do it himself.

"So, Tate," he said once everyone had a chance to tuck into their meal. "You were saying something earlier about a party?"

The boy poked at his stuffing sullenly. "Mama said she'd let Michael come over if I had a birthday party."

Patrick looked at him funny then looked over at Chad, mostly to see how he reacted.

"Well, I suppose any reason's a good reason to have a party," said Chad smoothly. "Though I don't know why you want a _birthday_ party."

"What other kind of party could I invite him to?" said Tate. "A kiddie kegger? Don't think so."

Chad gave him the hairy eyeball. "Watch the tone, young man."

Tate slouched more in his chair and glared at his plate from eye level. He could feel the other two watching him. He was torn. He very badly wanted his party but he also was unhappy and getting madder since he couldn't express himself without getting in trouble. He blinked back angry tears.

"When are you wanting to have it?" Pat asked, trying to defuse the mood.

"August 4th. That's when my birthday is," said Tate. He poked his stuffing some more.

"What sort of theme were you thinking?" said Chad.

The boy shrugged with affected indifference. "I don't know. Whatever you want to do."

Chad liked that answer. "We'll come up with something." It sounded generous but he sort of meant that in the royal 'we'.

They ate for a bit in silence. Then Tate asked: "Can I have a new haircut for my birthday present?"

"No," said Chad without hesitation. It was like he expected the question.

Tate expected the answer. It didn't even make him that much unhappier. He just went back to spearing his food.

...

The boy's sullen mood followed him through the evening, right up to bedtime. He'd mostly forgotten about dream therapy until he got back to his room from changing and brushing his teeth and there was Dr. Harmon sitting in the bedside chair and looking through his notebook. The man smiled; his blue eyes were warm and friendly. Tate instantly felt fifty per cent better.

He shut the door and climbed into his bed. Then he crawled over the blanket hills and valleys till he was over on the side where Ben was sitting. The doctor set the notebook aside and clasped his hands between his knees.

"This morning you said you were feeling pretty good about how things went last night," he said. "How are you feeling now?"

Tate chewed on his fingernails while he tried to compartmentalize that question. "I feel okay. I didn't really have any bad dreams last night but I don't know if that means this is working or if I just didn't have one. You know?"

Ben nodded. "Understandable. It's too early to expect solid results. But you're comfortable with proceeding?"

Tate smiled and nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah. Sure." He tipped his head. "Are you okay with it? I mean, that chair doesn't look very comfy."

"I'm fine," reassured Ben. "I've shifted my sleep schedule around a bit so I can stay up and monitor you. I wouldn't be much help if I were sleeping all night too."

"Oh. Yeah," Tate grinned. "I guess that's true. So, what? Do you, like, watch my eyes or something? Or do I talk in my sleep? Chad and Pat said I walk in my sleep sometimes but I think they're bullshitting me. I think I'd notice something like that."

Ben shifted so he could put an arm over the back of the chair. He was wearing more comfortable clothing tonight: Sweats and a loose t-shirt. "You didn't talk in your sleep last night. Or walk. But there are certain signs people give off when they're dreaming... and when they're having bad dreams." He smiled. "I used to know a guy who talked in his sleep."

Tate sat up a little, interested. "Did he say anything dirty?"

The therapist laughed. "That's what was funny. He would talk to you about anything except personal things. We all thought he'd be a trove of juicy secrets but... nah. He clammed up every time."

"He was probably faking it," said Tate. But he liked the story anyway. "Nobody can lie in their sleep."

"He didn't lie," Ben pointed out. "He just didn't say anything at all."

Tate swung his legs and considered that. He wasn't convinced but he couldn't argue it either. So he changed the subject. "I'm going to have a birthday party in a couple of weeks. Do you want to come?"

"A birthday party?" Ben looked at Tate - really looked at him - and was taken aback by just how much like a child he seemed. He'd noticed the arrested development a long time ago but pairing it with a physically younger form was interesting. "Sure, I suppose. Although I'm guessing Chad will hand down the official invite?"

Tate nodded. "Yeah. Don't tell him I told you either." He rolled his eyes. "Isn't that crazy? I can't even tell people about my own party."

Almost as though he could tell they were talking about him, Chad came in for tuck-in. Tate crawled up the bed and settled in. Ben watched them like an ornithologist might watch a pair of rare birds. Tate wasn't really the age he looked but the therapist had no doubt that he got something out of the tuck-in ritual, as did Chad. What that was exactly Ben wasn't sure. He would have to chew on it later, when he had time to think.

Once Chad left, the patient and doctor talked for a while longer. Then Ben unintentionally bored the boy to sleep telling him about the first practice he worked in. It was a trick he would likely use more deliberately in the future.

... ...

When Ben manifested in the dream, the zombie apocalypse had already hit. It was Tate versus the world. He was doing well for himself: He had a Humvee stocked with an arsenal of assault weapons. His black leather trench coat had seen better days but its tattered state went well with his mud-covered combat boots so he kept it.

He'd been surviving on his own but Ben's arrival warped the dream. Things changed seamlessly so that Ben always been there, part of a successful zombie-slaying partnership. The only thing they could never agree on was who got to drive. Ben always won by virtue of seniority. Other than that he let Tate control where the dream went from there.

The color of the dream was off: Everything looked bleached and drained dry. The world was an action-packed gore fest of cinematic proportions. Ben wasn't a fan of zombie films but in a strange way it became like a video game as he was shooting at targets that were only vaguely human. The bloodshed and splatter was so over the top that it never felt real. It was easy to get into the spirit of it.

Until Tate got bit.

It was just a routine stop to raid for supplies at a K-mart. The horde had come out of nowhere. Ben and Tate were fast but one of the biters was just a little faster and took a chunk out of Tate's forearm. He shot the zombie in the head but the damage was already done. He sat down, pale and losing strength.

Ben crouched beside him and looked at the injury. He was shocked by how quickly it was going necrotic. The infection was racing through the teen's vascular structure, writhing visibly in the veins closest to the skin.

"Tate," he said urgently. "This is just a bad dream. It isn't real."

Tate laughed and coughed at the same time. His lungs were shutting down. "Why's it... hurt so much then?"

He sagged and Ben had to catch him to stop him falling over.

"It's just a nightmare," he tried to reassure his injured companion. He tried to fight back the spread of the infection but Tate's belief was too strong. Ben couldn't stop it. He was losing control of the dream. "You're going to wake up soon. When you do this will all be over."

Tate choked and gave a violent spasm. Ben held onto him until he stopped twitching. Then he stopped moving completely. He went limp. Ben frowned but before he could decide what to do next Tate's eyes opened. They were yellow and blood-shot with infection. His skin was rapidly losing its remaining color. He snarled and grabbed Ben's shoulders and yanked down hard, fully intending to take a bite out whatever he could reach.

Ben used the momentum and flipped forward so that he could twist away. He scrambled to his feet. Tate was slower but not so much that it mattered. He charged at the therapist and Ben had to pull out of the dream.

... ...

He retreated to the chair and pulled the hood off. He felt like he just ran a ten-mile obstacle course. Ben looked over at Tate, who was still sleeping. The doctor couldn't wake him since he was sedated and Ben knew that he didn't have the strength to go in again and try to deal with what he'd left in the dream.

He changed his clothes and sank down into the chair again. He spent the next few hours sitting there staring at Tate, feeling like a failure.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

I couldn't write an American Horror Story without including the current American horror staple of zombies. The dream sequence I imagined was a little _Zombieland_ up till the end there.

Tate's birthday party was partly inspired by the one Michael didn't get to have and the one on the album _Disney's Haunted Mansion _- the original LP. As a kid I loved that thing. I always adored the two-page spread where the ghost child was having a birthday party in the ballroom. It was my favorite part of the book and the story. Well, second favorite. The ghost in the attic that carried his head in a hat box was probably my favorite.

So the next chapter's the last in this episode. I'm finding it hard to summarize the next episode as it wanders all over the place and looks at a variety of characters over the house's timeline. You'll even get to find out about the 4th Langdon child - the one Constance never talks about. So stick around. The best is yet to come.


	7. Chapter 7 - Dream House

**1982**

After nearly five years of pushing, cajoling and nagging her husband, Constance could at last relax. Standing in the front parlor of the old Victorian, she drew in a deep breath and exhaled with a smile. She was home.

Of course the place needed to be thoroughly cleaned out. Part of why they got the place at such a steal was due to the damage and vandalism to the property. With three children to look after, two of them special needs, Constance couldn't possibly do it all herself. Hugo was going to interview housemaids over the next week. It would be nice to have some assistance even without the addition of so many rooms to manage.

She felt a small hand slide into hers and she looked down. Her youngest son looked up at her with an unhappy little pout.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asked.

"There's monsters," Tate said.

Her brow furrowed. "What makes you say that?"

"Addie said."

Constance crouched down beside him and pet his hair smooth. "Well, don't you believe what your sister tells you. She's just tryin' to scare you."

The little boy wasn't sure who to believe. "Addie said. She said monsters are- she said the monsters are in the basement." It was a big idea he was trying to communicate using a 5-year-old's vocabulary.

"There aren't," Constance assured.

"How do you know?"

She smiled and brushed a finger under his chin lightly. "Because, honey, this is my house. The only monsters I allow in it are _my_ little monsters." She tickled him then which made him giggle. "Come on, now. Let's go pick out your room."

She stood and together, hand in hand, they went up the stairs.

...

That night Addie showed Tate how to get proactive about monsters. She waited till after everyone was in bed to sneak into his room. She could be very quiet when she wanted to be. The bed Tate was trying to sleep in was huge - all of the beds that came with the house were. She couldn't see him from the floor which meant he couldn't see her. She crept up to the foot of the bed ever so quietly, her cotton nightgown sweeping the polished wood floor.

She smiled to herself and then, when she was ready, she sprang up onto his bed.

He was in the center of the bed so she didn't land on him but she scared him pretty badly. He wasn't a screamer; he just tended to retreat from whatever scared him. He scooted across the bed and got to the far edge before he recognized his sister. She giggled at his reaction.

"I scared you," she said.

"Did not!" the little boy said, fear turning into anger instantly.

She crawled after him and gave him a hug. "Wanna see something?"

Tate wanted to stay mad at her but she always showed him neat things. So he forgave her. "What?"

"Come on." Addie slid off the bed to the floor. Then she slipped under the bed. "Come on, Tate."

Tate hesitated then followed her. It was dark under the bed. "Addie?"

She giggled and he moved that way. "Here. Take this," she said.

He felt something shoved into his hand. "What is it?"

"It's a flashlight."

She grabbed it without taking it from him and turned it on. It was a skinny, weak child's toy with a lens cap die cut to throw the beam of light in the shape of a star where ever it was pointed. The light was wan, yellow, and a lot better than nothing.

Tate shined it around. There was nothing under the bed but them. With the heavy skirt, it was almost like another room to him. There wasn't enough clearance to sit up but he could move about freely otherwise.

"Don't keep stuff here," Addie told him. "Monsters like junk. They... hide in it."

"Why?"

Addie shrugged. "Monsters like junk."

"Oh." Tate shined the light around again. "We're the monsters under the bed." He giggled.

Adelaide giggled too. "Rar!"

"RAR!"

"Shhh!" Addie shushed. "Daddy and Mama will hear you."

Tate covered his mouth with his free hand. They both got quiet for a few moments and listened intently. When it seemed they were in the clear they relaxed again.

"I gotta go potty," Tate told her.

"So go."

Tate didn't move. "Come with me."

"No!" Addie stuck her tongue out. "You're too old."

The boy still didn't move. "I don't wanna- I don't wanna go alone. It's dark."

"Use the flashlight."

Tate looked at the flashlight in his hand.

"It kills monsters," Addie supplied, trying to be helpful.

Something about the way she said it made Tate doubt her. "Come with me."

"Are you... scared?" smiled Addie.

Tate frowned. "It's dark."

"You have a flashlight," she reminded.

"You're mean," he said and scooted backward, out from under the bed.

It wasn't too dark in his room with his nightlight plugged in but it didn't look familiar and homey. His stuff was still mostly packed up. Boxes lined the walls. He got to his feet and went out into the hall. It was much darker. He shined the little flashlight down the hall but the beam was too weak to cut through the blackness. He had to shine it on the floor right in front of him for it to do any good.

He was almost to the bathroom when he heard footsteps behind him. It sounded like shoes, not bare feet; it wasn't Addie. Tate turned and his wan flashlight beam illuminated a ghastly woman's ash-white face. Her eyes were badly bloodshot and her face was twisted in a snarl.

Tate scampered backward then scrambled for the bathroom.

"You're a dirty little boy!" the woman screeched behind him. "Filthy, disgusting thing! You need to be cleansed!"

He got to the bathroom and slammed the door, quickly turning the lock even though he wasn't supposed to lock doors. Then his knees gave out and he sat down hard on the tile floor. He put his back against the door but then he felt something hit it hard. He scrabbled across the floor and hid under the pedestal sink behind the u-bend. He stared at the door, his eyes round with terror.

Seconds turned to minutes. Tate felt his nethers getting cold and, looking down, he realized he didn't need to tinkle anymore. He looked back at the door. He was too scared to cry; too scared to do anything but sit there, watching the door. Eventually he hoped someone would come find him but Addie fell asleep under his bed, waiting for him to return.

She found him the next morning when she went in to use the bathroom. She took one look at him then shouted over her shoulder: "Tate had an accident!"

She wasn't being mean; she was helping the best way she knew how. She went about brushing her teeth like she was supposed to. Tate crawled out from under the sink. Mama came in then, in her nightgown and a robe. Her hair was messy; it was still early. The little boy got up and looked at her miserably.

"Tate, honey," Constance crooned. She came over and crouched down to get a better look at him. She felt his forehead. "Are you sick? Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. Addie, hurry up. Can't you see your brother's havin' trouble?"

Addie tried her best to hurry while her mother drew a bath for Tate. Then his sister left the room.

"Mama, the mean lady scared me," he said.

"Get your PJs off, sweetheart. What mean lady?"

"The mean lady in the hall." He stripped down, glad to be rid of the wet clothes.

Constance tested the temperature of the water with her wrist. "There's no mean lady in-"

She looked over at him and suddenly realized he must be sensitive too. She knew Adelaide was. Hugo wasn't in the least. Beauregard... it was impossible to tell what he saw and knew. She motioned Tate over and helped him into the tub.

"Well. If you see the mean lady again, just call mama," Constance said. "I'll make sure she doesn't scare you. "

He looked at her soulfully. "I don't like her."

"That's okay, sweetie-pie," Constance smiled. "I don't like her either. Here. Let's have some bubble bath."

She poured some Mr. Bubble under the faucet. It had the desired effect: Bubbles foamed up and Tate's smile came out of hiding.

**...**

**2018 **

The large black case sat on the large marble table in what Chad always referred to as the 'Morning Room'. The room was a small one on the 2nd floor that took up the southwest corner of that level. It had broad windows and comfortable chairs. Patrick sat in one. Nikki stood beside him and watched with anticipation as he opened the latches on the black case and pushed the lid up. The two had become acquainted as she showed herself more frequently in the months following Halloween. It was because of a conversation with her that he'd dug the case out of the shed.

The interior of the box was lined with dark red velvet, similar to the inside of a musician's case. He unsnapped the lower liner to expose the contents of the velvet-lined bottom of the container's compartment.

Nikki leaned in for a closer look, sweeping her long black hair over her shoulder so it wouldn't get in her way. "Nice," she nodded. "Have you used them before?"

"Once, on a door," he said. "The guy I was... He had a waterbed."

She chuckled. "Yeah, I don't think that would work."

"No, not so well."

He opened the case the rest of the way and unsnapped the top liner so she could see what was on that side. She moved around to his other side to see better, crowding in next to his elbow.

"You didn't say you had one of those."

" I forgot I had it," Pat said. "It hasn't been used yet."

"That's a shame," Nikki said. Her sympathy was genuine. "Well, if you need any help setting it up..."

"I don't think I'll need help with that," he said. He refastened the velvet liners. "It would be nice to test it first though."

She smiled. "I think you could talk me into helping with that. Strictly for test purposes, of course."

He gave a short laugh. "Yeah. Maybe. We'll see." He shut the case and latched it again then he turned to her. "Hey, I'm going shopping around Halloween. You want to come with me?"

"Where?"

"The Stockroom."

"I'm there," said Nikki. "I don't have money but that's never kept me home before."

"Getting money off the living isn't hard," Patrick said. "If you don't want to steal, there's always online. Fill out some surveys, put up an Amazon store... Small returns but over the months it adds up. Stick it on Paypal. They give you a card. You never have to set foot in a bank. Which, for us..."

Nikki shook her head, impressed. "It's crazy what you can do in the future. You're a real ghost in the machine, Patrick."

...

The twin boys stood in the gap where the CAUTION tape had broken. They looked down into the sinkhole from as close to the edge as they dared to get. Which was very close.

"Okay, drop it in," Bryan told his brother. "Then shut up this time."

"You were the one who was talking last time," said Troy. "So you shut up, dickface."

"Just throw it in, stupid," said Bryan.

Troy held his hand over the hole, opened it and let a sizeable rock drop. Both redheaded tweens leaned forward and strained to hear the stone hit bottom.

After a long time, Troy finally turned to his brother. "See? It goes on forever."

"You shithead!" Bryan exclaimed and punched his twin in the shoulder. "It probably made a sound just then!"

Troy rubbed his arm and shot Bryan a dirty look. "It did not. It's probably still falling."

"Nothing can fall forever. You're being a retard."

"You are," Troy said.

They started away from the sinkhole then. Suddenly Bryan fell face-down on the ground. Thinking his brother had tripped, Troy pointed and laughed at him. But when the other boy slid backward toward the hole, he realized something was very wrong. His brother's foot was caught by a foggy black tendril that stemmed from the sinkhole.

Bryan looked back and, when he saw what had him, tried to grab hold of the ground. But there was nothing to latch onto.

"Troy!" he said, panic rising.

Troy scrambled to catch Bryan's hands. Bryan held onto his brother's hands and tried to get to his knees but the foggy tentacle hauled him flat again. It pulled so hard that Troy fell on his ass and got dragged along too. He dug his heels in, which slowed them down but didn't stop their progress toward the hole. Bryan was pulled in up to his hips before Troy could dig in sufficiently to stop.

"Don't let go!" Bryan gasped. The thing had both of his legs now. "Troy!"

The thing below pulled hard. Troy didn't let go. Both boys disappeared into the darkness.

...

The front door opened and a real estate agent, Amy, escorted her client inside the house. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand and a smart blazer and skirt on. Her client entered: A man in his mid-50s, tall and pale. He had long white hair that had gone a couple of days without being groomed. His clothes were nice but outdated, dark hues that contrasted with the light-colored outfit his host wore. He removed his tinted spectacles but kept his old fedora on.

He looked around the front parlor with close attention. "When were the last deaths?"

The real estate agent consulted her notes. "Seven years ago. The murder-suicide was a year before that." She sighed and looked around at the dark wood and stained glass. "Such a tragic history for such a lovely place."

"I prefer places that have history," the man said. "They tend to have more... personality."

"I agree whole-heartedly," Amy agreed in a fake show of solidarity. "Do you have a preference on where we start, Mr. Ambrose?"

"Let's start at the bottom-most level and work our way up," he said. "I'll view the grounds after."

"There is the sinkhole I mentioned in the back yard," the real estate agent said. "But that will be filled later this week. All right. Follow me and we'll start with the basement. There's still quite a bit of property from previous owners left in the house that comes with it. The basement has a lot that you could undoubtedly auction online..."

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

That's it for this episode. Roll credits. Check the ever-changing lineup on my Profile for song suggestions.

Fun fact - the Stockroom is a real place in LA. It's the city's oldest and premier fetish shop. In the show it's the place Chad got the rubber suit from. In reality the place did provide the suit and their shop is the actual one Chad goes to when he buys it.

Next episode is... well. Just more. There's not a quick way to describe it beyond that. More and more. Episode 6 is called **Persistence of Memory** and is ready to roll out. Episode 7 is nearing completion. Episodes 8 & 9 will deal with the WHS shootings so think of this as the closest thing to a warning you're going to get.

I forgot to add when I posted this: This episode ranked "Gertrude Stein" on _I Write Like... _I have to admit I'm flattered.


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